


What a catch, Andy.

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Drug Addiction, M/M, andy and patrick broing, author is incredible at tagging, be warned, but like, here there be hurt, heroin references, its mostly just andy freaking out so far so, look theyre all friends okay, more to come in the second chapter, pete and andy broing, slightly nsfw, um, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:25:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just that Joe hasn't smiled in two weeks, and Andy's chest is about to cave in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We're going down, down, in an earlier round.

**Author's Note:**

> gonna update sometime in the next day or so. happy travels!

It's not that Andy thinks that Joe's depressed. Depression is a big, scary, strong word, and Andy is a man of small, gentle, comforting words, so depression is not the one he's using. They all work together just fine, as usual, better than before, maybe, and at night he still curls up with Joe pressed up behind him, arm slung around his waist, large, and warm, and grounding as always. So, in that way, nothing's out of the ordinary. 

It's just that Joe hasn't smiled in two weeks, and Andy's chest is about to cave in.

And it's not even that, because he smriks sometimes for the camera, and he still laughs, kicks at Pete's shins and laughs his ass off when Patrick trips over his own shoelaces. 

But it's not the same. 

Because where before it was filled with something concrete, and sure, and so, so happy, like sunshine glinting through the darkness, Joe's laugh is now strained, just like his smile, forced and tired and too fucking weak, and Andy's had guns held to his head in Uganda, but this might be the most terrifying thing that he's ever experienced. \

Because this is Joe, _his_ Joe, and something's wrong, even if he doesn't know what. 

And that? That's real fucking terror. 

-0-

They play Phoenix for a double, two arenas in two days in February and after the show, Joe disappears for a few hours, but that's not so abnormal. Andy goes back to the bus with Patrick and they play Call of Duty until the sun rises while Pete alternates between playing and trying to get Hemmy to go in the toilet. 

When Joe shows up the next day for soundcheck, he's smiling, wide and sure and a little manic, yeah, but still. He walks straight up to Andy and curls his fingers into his hair with no hesitation, locking their lips together in the most steady, unrelenting kiss Andy's ever recieves, and Andy figures that they'll be fine.

He's wrong. 

 

And he knows he's wrong because as he watches, Joe's mood degrades. Each time a sound guy fucks up, every time his pick slips, every missed footing sends him farther into whatever this deep dark place he's started going to is, until right before the show starts, he snaps, and storms off, leaving a very confused Dirty in his wake.

Joe doesn't reappear until five minutes after they're supposed to go on, which, granted, is fine, because Patrick hasn't finished warming up yet, and Pete's pants are around his ankles for some bizzare reason, but it still freaks Andy out enough that when Joe walks over to kiss him before the show, Andy very purposefully goes out on stage a second earlier than he absolutely has to. 

 

He feels like he's playing a beat off all night. 

-0-

"Does he seem off to you?" Pete asks one day, jerking his chin toward Joe while they're paying at a shitty little cafe in Amsterdam, and Andy's heart sings at the fact that it's not just him, that he's not going crazy.

"He's not smiling." Andy replies, as simply as he can, and Pete nods, rubs one of the tats on the back of his forearm. 

"I'll talk to him." He says setting his jaw, and Andy feels like his missing something, but doesn't push it, because the weight has just lifted from his shoulders. If anyone's going to figure it out, is going to fix it, it'll be Pete. 

 

The weight comes back six hours later when Pete stumbles onto the bus with a split lip and tears in his eyes. 

"Don't ask." He growls, and Andy knows enough not to. Doesn't need to, anyway. 

Joe's not patching up Pete's face, so it must have been him. 

-0-

In an interview at Leeds, Joe says he considers it a 'drinking solution' and everyone laughs and calls it cute, except Andy and Pete.

Andy, who, that night as they're stepping offstage and Joe's already turning toward the guys who invited them out earlier, grabs him and shoves him, hard, up against the wall, slotting a thigh between Joe's legs before he can go anywhere. 

Neither of them goes out that night, and Andy feels a contented warmth curl in his stomach when Joe doesn't even leave to have a smoke after they're done. 

-0-

Pete and Joe aren't talking, and when Andy asks him about it, Joe just shrugs. 

"He's being a bitch, so I'm not talking to him." He says simply, and takes another swig of whatever he's drinking. Andy furrows his eyebrows, but lets it lie. 

Joe's never been particuarly good at doing things he doesn't want to do, and if he doesn't want to talk about it, it's not going to happen, anyway.

-0-

He doesn't quite figure it out, make all the connections, until one night he doesn't fall asleep when Joe does (Joe, who stumbled in at four AM, pupils blown wider than saucers and fucked Andy into the mattress as slow and hard as he possibly could until they were both about to sob) and as he gets up to go to the bathroom, notes the track marks littering his arms, like little freckles that have enver been there, before. 

It's a real testament to his incredible jedi-knight skills that he doesn't fucking screaming right then and there.

No. Instead, he very calmly and quietly pulls on his jeans, and walks out the door to their hotel room, shuts it behind him as silently as possible, and makes his way up the stairs toward the roof. He steps out into the crisp March air, shirtless and shoeless, and stands perfectly still in the sun, staring out over Denver. 

Around then is when he realizes that someone very, very close to him is roaring at the top of their lungs. 

It takes him another few minutes to discover that it's him. 

 

Half an hour later, a slightly shivering and much less stoic Andy shuffles back into the room, sliding back in behind Joe with one arm wrapped posessively around his chest, and the other curled tight enough into his hair that he can jerk Joe's head back and latch his lips onto the crook of his neck. Joe groans and pushes back against him, tired and hot and already hard, and Andy can't help it if he bites down just enough to bruise. 

He manages to grind down twice before it's too much, before the tears start prickling at the backs of his eyes and he jerks back, tumbling off the bed and scrambling back until he hits the wall, because he can't fucking _breathe_. 

He vaguely registers that Joe is talking to him, but doesn't listen, can't listen, as he rushes back out the door, stumbling through the hallways of the hotel until he finds the door to Pete and Patrick's room. He collpases against it, resting his forehead against the wood and somehow managing to brace his arm against the frame until it finally opens. 

And then there are Pete's blessedly strong arms around him, holding him up, and someone's helping him inside while he fights for air that just won't come, his chest constricting more and more with each breath that he can't take. He lets himself be led to the bed, lets someone sit him down and hears the door slam as he's pulled into a warm embrace, his face pressing into the soft fabric of what must be a cardigan.

"Andy." He feels more than hears the words, whispered into his hair, and his eyes snap open. 

"Patrick." He gasps, and he has to fight not to rip himself away as Patrick's thumbs wipe over his cheeks, brushing away tears he didn't know were there. 

"Andy, breathe." Patrick's voice is soft and laced with concern, which is normal, and he closes his eyes, wants to sink into it and let it wrap him up and carry him away from all this bullshit, until he hears shouting out in the hallway, and his head jerks up as he realizes that Pete's not here. "Andy, you've got to breathe."  

And Patrick's telling him to do it, so he does, in spite of the fact that he can hear a body slam up against the now-closed door, and Pete's voice shouting at the top of his lungs that someone needs to " _stop, just fucking stop you fucking asshole, it's not that fucking hard."_

_  
_"They're fighting." Andy whispers, and Patrick nods.

"They have been for a while." He responds, lowering his voice to meet Andy's level like the considerate son of a bitch that he is. "Few weeks." Andy rubs his face with his hands and lets his forehead rest against Patrick's shoulder, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach. Patrick's fingers card through his hair while Pete screams at Joe in the hallway until Andy eventally falls asleep, curled up in Patrick's embrace. 

 

When he wakes back up, Patrick's gone, and Pete's sitting with his chin resting on his knees in the bed next to him, sporting a shiner and a sour expression. 

"How long?" Andy asks, and if Pete's surprised by his voice coming out of the silence, he doesn't show it.

"He told me three weeks." Pete says softly, his fingers curling into tight fists around the fabric of his jeans. "Could be worse."

 

Andy nods slowly. 

"Where is he?" He asks, and Pete sighs. 

"At the moment? Locked in the bathroom." Andy raises an eyebrow, and looks toward the door as Pete continues. "Withdrawl sucks, but we're not letting him out until it's over, so."

"How long do you think--" He starts, but Pete cuts him off. 

"I figure it's been about nine hours since his last hit, since the withdrawal's already hit. It'll peak after about twelve hours and fade after about a day." He shrugs. "If he'd been doing it for longer, then.....well, then we'd be royally fucked." He says it like he's reading from a dictionary, but his shoulders are tight and his entire body is curled inward, because yes, Pete's a big boy who can handle what he needs to handle, but this is _Joe_. 

"So we need to keep him in the bathroom for a day?" Andy asks, because that seems both simple and fairly inhumane, and Pete just shrugs.

"Basically." He finally turns, looks Andy straight in the eye, and the drummer can see the rings around his eyes, red and puffy from crying. "We're all gonna need to pull together for this." He says, and Andy nods. This might be the most difficult thing he's ever had to deal with, and it's going to hurt worse than anything that any of them have ever felt, but it'll be worth it. For Joe. 

"Okay." He says, and claps Pete on the shoulder before he makes his way off the bed in the direction of the bathroom, trying to push away the sinking feeling in his stomach as he hears wretching from the other side of the door. 

It's gonna be a long night. 

 

 


	2. i will never end up like him, behind my back i already am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks every bit the seventeen year old boy Andy fell in love with all those years ago, teetering over the edge of too thin and independent to a fault, looking up at him with a face that's all dark circles and clenched jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS OVER. I DID IT. IT'S BEEN FOUR MONTHS.
> 
> I'M SORRY.

For the first four hours, Joe will only consent to speak to Patrick, and whenever Andy or Pete enter the bathroom he turns his head away and shouts at them to _get the fuck away from me._

Which hurts, understandably so, but Andy's not exactly made of glass, and this is not the worst he's ever gotten from someone he's been with, even if it is the worst he's ever gotten from Joe.

 

So for that time, Patrick goes in and out pretty fluidly, bringing Joe water and sitting on the counter while Joe sits on the closed toilet seat, talking to him in that special, quiet Patrick voice that none of the rest of them have ever been able to master. Once in a while they'll hear Joe say something slightly louder but it's never enough to understand.

 

So, basically, mostly, for the first four hours, Pete and Andy sit on the bed in the PatrickPete room and do nothing.

Well, that's not strictly true, because eventually they both get so fucking antsy that they have to do something, so Pete pulls his laptop out from under the bed and they go back and forth on DotA for a while until Patrick comes out, touches Andy's shoulder, and says;

"He wants to talk to you." And he gets up on instinct and walks toward the bathroom without even thinking about it because it’s Joe, and what the fuck else is he supposed to do?

 

He steps into the bathroom, and Joe is curled up on the floor between the toilet and the sink, arms wrapped tightly around his knees and head cradled between them. He looks up when Andy walks in, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot and desperate, and it makes Andy’s stomach clench because he looks every bit the seventeen year old boy Andy fell in love with all those years ago, teetering over the edge of too thin and independent to a fault, looking up at him with a face that's all dark circles and clenched jaw.

 

And he wants to make it stop, wants to reach out and hold Joe close and never let him go because that’s what made this happen. Because maybe if he’d been paying closer attention, it would never have gotten this far. And right now, Joe’s looking at him with that same pained, raw expression he did after Best Buy, after they’d all cried their way through whatever they needed to, after Pete had fallen asleep with Joe curled around him, pressed tight enough that Joe had told Andy later he could feel his heartbeat, hard and constant against his chest.

 

But he knows that this is different, and he knows he can’t just squeeze all the pain away, so instead he shuts the door as quietly as he can, and leans against it, hands in his pockets because otherwise he’ll end up twisting his shirt with them and he needs to stay still, right now, because when Joe’s upset, this is what he needs. He needs strong and steady and prepared, and Andy is, to be sure, but not as much as he should be. So he stands there and he’s quiet and still and he waits.

 

Because if there’s anything Andy’s good at, it’s waiting.

 

And eventually, it pays off, because they stare at each other for a few good long minutes, silent and vaguely uncomfortable, until Joe swallows thickly, and shakes his head, sliding his hands up to curl his fingers so tightly into his own hair that his knuckles go white.

“I’m sorry.” He gasps, and it hurts, it really fucking hurts, because Joe's entire body is shaking with unrestrained sobs as he pulls himself into an ever-tighter ball. "I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry, don’t hate me, please don’t hate me.” Andy moves forward, slowly, and kneels down in front of Joe, reaches out and pries his fingers out of his hair with gentle hands, wrapping himself around the younger man and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head while Joe buries his face in the soft fabric of Andy’s t-shirt.

And for a while, they just sit there, with Andy stroking his fingers through Joe’s slightly sweaty hair, and Joe curled around Andy and himself while his breathing slowly evens out. It’s quiet, that special kind of quiet that usually only comes at ass o’clock in the morning, but here they are, just slowly inhaling and exhaling into each other when Joe tilts his head up and whispers “I love you.” 

Andy ignores the smell and the way his fingers slide a little too easily over Joe’s skin as he curls one hand around his jaw, and locks their lips together, slow, and soft, and as gentle as he can possibly be considering the way his heart is jackrabbiting around his chest. Joe’s fingers curl tightly into his collar and he pushes himself up, just slightly, and he’s twenty-two, now, yeah, but right now, right at this moment, Joe is that same seventeen year old boy that Andy first met all those years ago, young and brilliant and vulnerable beyond belief. And it’s Andy right now like it’s always been Andy, picking Joe up when he breaks himself (literally, that one time in Dallas with the busted leg) and piecing him back together. 

So, yeah. They’re gonna make it through this. 

-0-

That mentality lasts about another hour of basic silence and profuse sweating, until Joe jerks up out of a very slight doze and throws himself at the toilet, with no warning whatsoever, retching into it and losing whatever he had for lunch yesterday in the process, and it’s a fucking god-given miracle that Andy has the reflexes he does and can jerk forward and pull Joe’s hair back in time to keep it out of the way. 

Patrick steps inside about a minute later with a glass of water and crouches down to hand it to Joe, who nods just a little as he takes it, makes eye contact for the barest of moments, and there’s something being said there that Andy definitely didn’t catch (a rarity in and of itself) but it’s explained shortly after when Patrick leaves with a small smile, and less than a second later there’s a series of thumps and Pete has thrown himself bodily into the bathroom, essentially hanging off the doorframe. He looks at Joe with the special eyes, the look he only gives people when he’s so sincerely afraid they’ll hurt him that he can barely move, and Joe doesn’t speak, just sets his water down and reaches one arm out toward Pete, and that’s all Pete needs before he’s on the floor with them, crawling over and squeezing himself in between Joe and the bathtub, and sliding his arms loosely around Joe’s waist, just enough that he can hold him back-to-chest, and press his face into the crook of the younger man’s neck. 

They stay that way, with Andy and Pete bracketing Joe on both sides, and Patrick drifting in and out of the room to take phone calls from the everyone; the label, Gabe (five times in a row until Patrick picks up) Charlie, everyone. Dirty calls and insists on speaking to Joe, who takes the phone and listens intently to a string of words and curses that Andy can’t actually piece together, but which he apparently can, because at the end, he nods, and mumbles something back that’s only for Dirt's ears, and then hangs up. When he needs to hurl again, Pete holds his hair back while Andy rubs his hands up and down Joe’s sides, and Patrick comes back in to sit with them, holding another water and resting one hand on his lower back. 

They’re like a little drug-withdrawal family, Joe comments into the toilet bowl, and Patrick meets Andy’s eyes for a second, half pity and half fear and presses their knees together.

It helps. A little.

-0-

Fifteen hours in, Joe’s fast asleep, shivering with a cold none of the rest of them can feel, against Pete’s chest when the first cramp hits his leg, making it twist out and catch Andy directly in the stomach. He gasps, more out of the shock of it than the hurt, and Joe jerks awake, yelping in pain and rolling out of Pete’s lap and away from Andy on instinct while his leg trembles uncontrollably. They all sit there in silence for a long moment, Andy holding his stomach while Pete looks confused, but it’s Patrick who eventually crouches down beside Joe and wraps an arm around his shoulders while he stares disbelievingly at his leg. 

"It won’t stop." He mumbles, shaking his head and wiping away the fresh tears that have started to pool on his cheeks. "It won’t stop, I can’t make it stop." It’s a little disturbing, really, to watch, and even more upsetting as Joe’s leg continues to twitch and kick without his consent, and Andy’s done research on this, looked it up with Pete, shooting pains through the extremities resulting in spasms, but this is so much worse than it was on paper, because Joe’s got the rest of himself curled in tight, staring wide-eyed at his leg while he continues to whisper it like a mantra. "It won’t stop. I can’t stop it, it won’t stop." 

By the time it’s over, Joe’s even more of a mess than he was before, all tears and snot and sweat, and they all come to the conclusion that the best plan right now is a shower, so Andy kicks Pete out of the bathroom with a little (a lot) of help from Patrick, and helps Joe get his clothes off while the water heats up. 

They get in, and Joe practically leaps out of the shower at the first touch of the warmth to his skin, but Andy wraps his arms around his waist, and presses his face into the crook of his neck, and holds him there, while the water flows over them, soaking Joe’s already damp hair. Joe circles his arms as tightly as he can around Andy’s back, and lets his head roll onto his shoulder.

"Hurts." He grits out, and Andy nods slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the crook of his neck. 

The  _I love you_ and  _I'm sorry_ goes unsaid, but they both hear it. 

-0-

Twenty hours and counting, and Joe has thrown up eleven times. Patrick's basically a lifesaver, honestly, because Pete refuses to let go for longer than he absolutely has to, even when the shaking gets so bad that theyc an't hold him still, and Andy's reached the point of sitting so still and silent for so long that he's not sure he can get up. 

But Patrick just keeps coming in with water, and saltines, and water, and granola bars, and water, and more water, and sometimes he takes calls (on all of their phones) and sometimes he sits with them while Joe sleeps slumped against the bathtub and strokes his hair, occasionally resting their foreheads together when Joe's conscious and whispering things to him that Andy can't help but listen to.  _The new riff is great but we should tweak it_ to which Joe will reply with a raised eyebrow and a rasped-out  _what, exactly, do we need to tweak, Stump._ But he's smiling, just a little, just in the eyes, and that's something.

Pete traces his fingers over the tattoos on Joe's back, his shirt having been discarded after the shower because once the fever subsided it was _t_ _oo fucking hot, god damn it Hurley, I'm a drug addict, not a lunatic._  So Joe is now in just his jeans on the floor, with Pete behind him, and Andy in front, rubbing his thumbs over the back of his neck where his head is pillowed on his shoulder. 

He knows they all fall asleep at some point, twenty two hours of sitting on a bathroom floor'll do that to you, because he wakes up with Joe's face pressed into his neck, and Pete's leg thrown over his own, and his own head resting in Patrick's lap instead of the tile, which he's thankful for. He cracks his eyes open, and looks up. Patrick is staring at the wall, leaning against the sink with one hand resting on Andy's collarbone, and he looks...tired. Like, bone-tired. 

Andy reaches one hand up, slowly, and links his fingers with Patrick's, smiling just slightly when he starts, and looks down, eyes a little wider than they should be, but the corner of his mouth quirks, and he squeezes Andy's hand. 

"Hey." His voice grates a little, but it's Patrick it'll get better. 

"Hey." Andy murmurs. "How long has it been since you slept." 

Patrick bites his lip, and looks up, like he's counting, and Andy shakes his head, shifting Joe's head to rest on his thigh as he sits up. 

"Go to bed." He orders, keeping his voice at a whisper, and Patrick's mouth presses into the tight line it only ever does when he's preparing to bitch someone out. He draws in the kind of quick breath he does right before speaking, and Andy shakes his head again, cutting him off before he can start. "Go. To. Bed. We'll be okay for a couple of hours." 

Patrick's quiet for a long moment, and then looks down, rubbing his hands over one another, and in a split second, Andy figures it out. 

"Patrick." He says softly, rubbing his thumb over Patrick's knuckles, and letting out a short breath. "You've done so much. You've done more than enough." The younger man looks up, and Andy smiles again, squeezing his hand. "Go get some sleep." Patrick's quiet again, and then nods slowly, leaning forward to peck Andy's cheek before he crawls up off the floor and stumbles back into the actual room. 

Andy looks down at Joe, still snoring softly, and feels his forehead again, noting with satisfaction that his temperature's definitely gone down. Pete snuffles in his sleep and snuggles closer, and Joe's arm tightens around his shoulders. 

It's not perfect, but it's something. 

 

-0-

 

THREE WEEKS LATER:

 

Something is trying to eat him in his sleep.

That must be it, because something or someone is for sure biting at the back of his neck as he wakes up, leaving what must be red marks up and down his throat.

"Joe." He rasps, his voice rough with sleep, and the biting stops for about half a second before its replaced with soft lips mouthing over his shoulder. "What time is it." There's another pause, and then;

" 'leven."

Andy sighs quietly, and reaches back, threading his fingers into Joe's hair, and turning his head as he tugs him closer so that he can seal their lips together. Joe must have brushed his teeth (very conscientious of him, he gets sex points for that) before beginning this particular sexcapade, and he tastes like coffee and mint. 

Andy pivots, and flips them, straddling Joe in one easy motion, and sliding his hands down to press his palms against his ribs, still a little to prominent for his liking, but they're working on it, feeding him fat-rich foods and making sure he gets three square meals a day, but then Joe's hands are sliding down into his boxers and food is the last thing on his mind. 

He grinds his hips down lazily, and Joe groans, jerking up against him. 

 

It only takes a few lazy thrusts of his hips and a well placed hand before Joe's spilling over his fingers, his face pressed hard into the crook of Andy's neck, and then flipping him over to kiss down his chest and take him fully in his mouth as smooth as you like. 

Andy bites his lip, hard, as he comes, with his fingers curled tight in Joe's hair, and his cheek pressed against the pillow. 

 

Joe presses his nose against Andy's hip, and breathes deep and hard, his fingers dancing up and down Andy's thighs until it tickles and Andy knees him in the shoulder, making him groan and roll onto his back with one of those deep-chested chuckles that he reserves for Andy and incredibly dirty jokes.

Joe's hand finds Andy's across the covers, and Andy drags his thumb down Joe's arm, blessedly smooth and soft, before tangling their fingers together.

"I love you." Joe breathes, and Andy closes his eyes, shifts just close enough that he can press a soft kiss to Joe's temple. 

"I love you, too."

 

  
 They're gonna be fine. 

 

 

 

                                                                                 


End file.
